


love the way you wear that

by perfect_little_fool



Series: however many times it takes (to get this right) [1]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Blindfolds, Canon Divergence, Clothes Sharing, Din Djarin's Helmet Stays on During Sex, Exhibitionism If You Squint, F/M, I used "sweet girl" sue me, Jealousy, Mando is still in the Guild, Mildly Dubious Consent, Moneyshot, Naked Female Clothed Male, No use of y/n, POV Second Person, Post-Coital Cuddling, Season/Series 02, Smut, come see me write for a universe i've never written for before, diverges from canon after chapter 12, the Razor Crest is intact
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:21:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28439052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfect_little_fool/pseuds/perfect_little_fool
Summary: “Won’t you be cold?” you ask, voice suddenly hoarse. “Without your—cape?”His gait freezes at the question, body turning slowly to glance back at you. The impenetrable steel of his helmet mocks you, yet again. “What did you call it?” he asks, tone slow.(or, five times you use Mando’s clothing to suit your needs and the one time you use someone else’s. he has...reactions to it.)
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You, The Mandalorian/Reader, The Mandalorian/You
Series: however many times it takes (to get this right) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2099844
Comments: 49
Kudos: 547





	love the way you wear that

**Author's Note:**

> fic song used for title: “Dress” by Charlotte Sands
> 
> Would just like to say thank you to @guardianangelcas for writing her fic “Rough Day” and giving me inspiration to write for this fandom for the first time. What a WILD ride this new obsession with Mando has been. Hope I do it justice!
> 
> *continuity is effed in some areas but pleeeeease forgive me as this universe is WAY out of my element for storytelling. I hope to improve!!

You first met the kid on Nevarro when he was covered in black sand and attempting to shake it off with his short little arms. There was no one around him within a six foot radius, just this little green bean in brown drapery trying to wipe his own face with claw-like fingers.

“Hey,” you chuckle while squatting down to his level, reaching forward to brush some of the dirt out from under his eye. “Where’d you come from? And why’re you all alone?”

The small face just peers back up at you and begins making babbling noises, arms reaching upward. You raise a brow but concede, grabbing the sides of his tiny body and lifting him into your arms. He settles on your hip, peering up at you while still trying to rid himself of the sand dusting the little green hairs on his head.

You manage a second chuckle. “Looks like someone made a mess—”

“What do you think you’re doing?” 

The flat, modulated voice startles you and you whip around, almost clanging your free elbow into the suit of beskar suddenly towering over you. A gulp lodges itself halfway down your throat as your eyes move up, catching the sight of the chrome-glistening helmet glaring down at you. Well, as much as a metal helmet _can_ glare. You gulp again. 

“I-I’m sorry,” you stutter out, instinctually huddling the child closer to you. “Is he yours? I-I found him—”

“Let him go.”

A sense of dread starts to fill you, uncertainty marring the joy you had felt at finding this adorable little creature. “I-I’m sorry, here, let me—”

“Mando, stop scaring the new kid,” Cara says upon rounding the corner, her boots shuddering to a stop in the little group you’ve now all formed. Seeing the Marshal eases your shackles back down a bit, but you can still feel the steely gaze of the armored man beside you. You’d never encountered a Mandalorian before now and you had never planned on it, yet fate seems to have dealt you different cards. Cara continues, oblivious to the panic attack stirring in your bones. “She’s harmless. Maybe you should stop letting that little green shortstack wander off all the time.”

“I don’t—” _Mando_ huffs through the filter at his mouth, arms crossing over his chest. “I don’t let him _wander off_. He has a knack for getting himself into tight spots.”

You snort, speaking before you realize you are. “Hard not to when he’s such a tiny little guy. He could fit anywhere.”

The Mandalorian looks back in your direction, the posture he’s presenting telling you he’s anything but amused by your outburst. You screw your lips tight, feeling as if you just ate something sour. 

Cara gives an easy smile, clapping a hand on your shoulder not being brushed by pointy green ears. “This is my newest negotiator I told you about,” she tells him. “I’d say her official title is ‘sweet-talker’ but I’ve been told by my Marshal-constituents that she can’t be given such a name.”

For a reason too far over your head, you find blood rushing to your cheeks as _Mando_ just continues to level you with an unreadable gaze. Being dubbed a _sweet-talker_ to a man who’s an expert at everything _but_ talking if the stories you’ve heard ring true is—humiliating to say the least. You dart your eyes from him, finding solace in making eye contact with the little green bugger instead.

“You’re good with words.”

A statement, not a question. The modulated voice saying it makes your muscles tense, still unsure how to gauge his persona. You look back at him again, giving one quick, short nod.

“So I’ve been told,” you reply with as much confidence as you can.

“You good with your hands?”

The question knocks the air out of you, unexpected and firm. Heat hits you square in the chest, reigniting the blush from earlier. You’re sure your eyes are bugging out of your head. Cara laughs off to the side, more in response to the inquiry then your response. Even though you can’t very well see his face, you suspect the Mandalorian is remaining stoic, patiently waiting for your answer.

“I’m a fast learner,” you supply, almost choking on the lack of air in your lungs. 

He gives some sort of noise through his helmet, one you can’t distinguish. “Good.”

(You could just about die.)

“Good,” Cara mirrors. “So you’ll hire her?”

Your head whips so fast to look at the Marshal, your ponytail you had hastily made to keep your hair out of your face hits one of the pointy green ears still poking at you. “ _Hire_ me?” you question, voice unbelieving.

“I told you I potentially found you a job, remember?” she blinks, large arms crossing over her chest now too. Great, two very intimidating individuals who could snap your neck if they wanted to, staring down at you with crossed arms. Great.

“Yes, but—”

“So?” Cara inquires again, returning her attention to _Mando_.

He runs his helmet from the top of your head to the tips of your toes. How it is that a man whose face you can’t see can make the ends of your fingers tingle in nerves, you have no idea. “She’ll do.”

 _She’ll do_. You want to sputter, want to retaliate, but Cara’s hand on your shoulder stops you. You need the credits, after all.

“Thank you,” you mutter instead, hitching the kid higher on your hip.

“Here,” he’s saying, sending you reeling since you were certain the conversation was over. From a pack on his belt he pulls out a square black piece of fabric, something messily stitched together. He holds it out to you. 

Your eyebrows scrunch. Is this some sort of...rite of passage? Now that he’s hired you? You’ve never read the Creed that Mandalorians live by, but this seems odd. Who knew a ritual was necessary for someone to get paid—

“For the kid,” he clarifies, tone not giving much away through the modulator. He must have seen your confusion the minute it flashed over your face.

You simmer in your embarrassment, yet again. “Right,” you murmur, reaching out likewise to grab the cloth from his hand. Your fingers brush his glove-covered ones, leather and rough, before you snatch your grasp back. “Thank you. Again.” You clear your throat and drop your gaze to the baby, flattening the cloth against your fingers to start wiping at the sand still covering parts of his face and the top of his head. Some is even behind his ears—Maker, he got messy.

When you’re finished you look back up, ready to hand back the cloth, but _Mando_ is turning away from you, about to stride after Cara who’s already walking away. “Keep it,” he gruffs.

You do.

-

As far as being good with your hands, you _are_. 

Just—not in the way your new employer was probably expecting.

You’re inspired with the kid. The two of you created an attachment within days of being on the Razor Crest, playing hide-and-seek and then cuddling up to nap on the ground while the Mandalorian was searching for a quarry. You’re good at keeping him tucked at your side, good at changing him if he needs it, good at feeding him when he’s being stubborn—all things which require hands.

On the other end of it, however, is your boss attempting to teach you how to fix parts of his ship. That is _not_ what you signed up for.

When he first asked if you had any electrical experience you had just dumbly looked at him while dangling a frog leg in front of the kid’s face, unsure how to reply. He was quick to assume your answer and sighed, turning away with a swirl of his cape-thing behind him. 

(Also—who wears a cape? Is it a cape? What do you call that? Why in the world—never mind.)

Soon after he told you he wanted to try and show you the ropes, see if you could pick up anything related to maintaining his ship. Eager to please, you agreed, but felt nerves bubble in your stomach within seconds. And now, here you are, sitting cross-legged on the ground in front of an open panel, chewing your lip at the mess of wires and sockets.

“So this is for, uh, steering?” you inquire, pointing at a jumble of orange and green.

The Mandalorian shakes his head from above you. His arms are crossed over his chest _again_. “Navigation,” he corrects.

You huff. “And this?” A mess of blue and red.

“ _That’s_ steering.”

Your jaw clenches, frustration thrumming through you as you attempt to catch on. “Okay, so what exactly am I looking at here?” you question. His ankles shuffle next to you. You yet again wonder why he won’t just squat at your side while he teaches you this shit. “Is there something that needs to be adjusted? Replaced?”

“See where there’s some wires crossing between the two bundles?”

You nod.

“I want that cleaned up. Everything where it’s supposed to be.”

Sometimes, the timbre of his voice is solid. Too deep. Hits you in certain places at the back of your neck that alights shivers down your spine. You blame it on the fact that you’ve never been around someone who wears a helmet twenty-four seven. Something about his human voice being pumped through a filter sits in you odd.

You nod again. “Okay, so, I need to unhook something and re-hook them so they’re not crossing paths?” 

His silence gives you an answer.

The wires are pretty tangled so you unplug a few before starting the process of straightening them out. Your head is ducked at an awkward angle to see and a crick begins to form in your neck but you want to get this done, want to show you’re _useful_ , so you ignore it. As you’re about to replug some in, pretty happy with your handiwork, the blunt heads of two wires touch under your fingertips and electric bolts run up the lengths of your arms. You shriek and fall back on instinct, curses tumbling past your mouth.

You hear the sound of metal clanging to the ground and you glance up, gritting your teeth, to see the Mandalorian kneeling beside you. “What happened?” he asks.

“I, uh,” you hiss at the weird shocks hurling through your elbows, “shocked myself.”

Suddenly, one of his hands is grabbing yours, yanking it up to his line of vision. He inspects the damage on your fingers, the tips of them black and red. He hums through the modulator, an oddly calming sound. 

“They’ll be fine,” he tells you, allowing his grip to drop yours. Your stomach gives a roll. “In the meantime—” he pauses, clearly struggling with himself on something, before deciding on it. “Here.”

Then, he’s tugging off one of his gloves. You suck in a breath. Before it’s off completely, no skin uncovered, he stops. “Can you—can you turn the other way?” 

Hastily you nod, whirling your head around so you’re making eye contact with the kid’s floating cradle on the other side of the ship. Your heart is pounding so fast and you’re unsure why. You feel like there’s black sand pooled at the bottom of your mouth.

Within seconds you feel a weight drop onto your lap. You swallow and glance down, being met with the sight of his worn, brown gloves waiting for you. In your peripherals the Mandalorian has stood back up, no skin in sight as he’s clearly hiding his bare hands from your view. Something runs down the course of your body. 

“You can wear them while you finish up,” he relays, the sound of his voice thick through the modulator. “So you don’t hurt yourself again.”

“Uh, sure, okay,” you croak out. “Thank you, Mand—uh, sir. Thank you, sir.”

As you’re tugging the gloves on, the broad warmth of them dwarfing your much smaller hands and slimmer fingers, you hear him clear his throat off to the side. “What did you call me?”

You freeze, afraid you offended him. “Sorry, I-I wasn’t sure—you hired me so I figured you’d want to be called—”

“Mando,” he interrupts, voice rough. “You can call me Mando.”

You nod, feeling off-kilter, and find yourself happy to have something to do to ignore the tension rolling thick around you. You return to re-hooking the wires, laying some of them flat and organizing the bunch of them. It’s some time later that you feel like you’re about finished and glance back up, seeing Mando has walked off and away somewhere. You pause, unsure.

The gloves feel heavy in your hands, weighted and bulky. You wonder how he carries them around all day and then remind yourself it’s part of the whole get-up—the entirety of his beskar itself must weigh a ton. You get to your feet and glance around the hull, noticing the door to his cot is slotted open.

“Uh, Mando?” you call, the name sounding foreign in your mouth still.

“You finished?”

“Yeah, I wanted to give—” He sits up, the broad width of his shoulders taking up the entirety of the cove where his bed is. His hands are still hidden from view, tucked behind his large thighs that are keeping him upright. “—your gloves back,” you finish, throat dry. “Thank you for letting me use them.”

You slide them off, ready to pass them to him, when you remember you’d catch a sight of his bare hands. So, instead, you step forward and bend down, gently setting them on top of his knee closest to you. Breath escapes you.

He’s looking at you under that helmet. You’d bet some of your credits on it.

Then the sound of the floating cradle’s top flying open greets you and the kid starts making bubbling noises. You breathe out, turning away to go attend to whatever the little demon demands this time. 

You wonder if Mando would ever say the words _you’re welcome_.

-

Four weeks in this hunk of junk and it does the predictable.

In the short conversations you’ve had with Mando, which are undoubtedly few and far between, he mentioned how often the Razor Crest decides to break down. You wonder if, even though he’s the one to mainly fix it up until this point, that’s on _you_. You’ve gotten better and better ( _with your hands_ ) but still aren’t fluent in the language of engineering, unfortunately. Your assistance in maintenance of the ship isn’t really beneficial quite yet.

You did manage to, _finally_ , show off your skills another way to Mando. It had been in Canto Bight, when you had wandered off the ship after saying you’d never been on Cantonica before. Luckily, the kid was asleep, and you were allowed to tag along for just a little bit before you’d need to return to check on him. 

There you had been passing street merchants, mostly carts stock full of what looked to be cheap merchandise. Some had rotating meat, a heavy scent in the air. Others showed various machinery scattered about. At one table you’d stopped to look over some pieces of jewelry, nothing luxurious but shiny enough to catch your eye.

Mando had stopped when you had, looking back at you with a questioning flex to his shoulders. Since you’ve never seen his face you’ve been able to gather some physical cues, and can pick up on his moods depending on the way he’s standing, walking, or moving. It’s hard, but you’ve managed.

At the merchant booth, the vendor eyed you. “How much for this one?” you had asked, pointing at a silver-chained piece, dangling with some folded pieces of metal that created an intricate sliver of origami. 

The vendor scoffed. “100 cred.”

Your eyebrows had shot up. “100?”

“That’s what I said, lady.”

Mando was at your side now, but you ignored him. “100 cred—a hard bargain. It appears that this piece of silver could have only been made for 10 credits. To me, that’s what it’s worth.”

“10 cred? If you think—”

“This,” you had interrupted, bringing your finger right next to the folded metal that creates the origami you’re fascinated with, “was clearly forged on Jakku, judging by the pattern represented. I know for a fact that laborers there are not paid more than 5 cred a piece for every product they produce—meaning I’m being generous.”

The vendor then smacked his large lips nastily. “I said it’s 100.”

“And I know it’s not worth more than 10.”

“Why don’t you fuck off and—”

Mando had stepped closer to you then, arm shielding you minimally with the room you were allowing him in your space. Once again, you ignored the protection he offered. “Threats won’t sway me,” you told the vendor calmly, looking him straight in his beady black eyes. “I’m willing to go to 20.”

“75.”

“25.”

“50.”

“30.”

The vendor snarled, stepping forward, before Mando’s hand had shot out and slammed against the table in front of you. Pieces of jewelry rattled. You stayed neutral, unaffected, waiting for confirmation that you would get what you wanted.

Finally, he conceded. “Fine. 30. Next time, don’t purchase from someone trying to make a living.” You only nodded and politely smiled before scooping up the necklace and handing over the appropriate amount of credits. No other words were exchanged before you turned on your heel to leave. 

Mando hadn’t necessarily said anything as he followed after you, but the impressed air he gave off was all you needed. He hired you because of your ability to negotiate and he’d finally seen it in action. Satisfaction bubbled in your stomach.

And yet, now, your skills are useless. Being stuck on a snow-covered planet, knee-high and wet and cold, you’re basically a sitting duck. Mando had already ventured out into the landscape a few times to see what he could do, but the Crest isn’t having it. You’re stuck, at least for now.

Luckily, you had a nice large wool blanket to huddle over you and the kid, his little body bundled into your chest as you lay back against the wall of the ship. The floor is still cold, but at least the small beast gives off a miniscule amount of warmth. 

Unfortunately for you, the blanket only reaches from your chest to your feet. You can’t move it up further to cover your arms and shoulders fully, so the small amount of skin exposed along your collarbone and neck are pebbling from the chill. Your teeth are chattering and clanging together, but at least you still have all of your fingers and toes. Mando found a heat lamp early and you’re sitting next to it even though it’s not doing much to help. 

Your name being said draws your attention to the hatch as Mando comes back in, closing it behind himself. “Where is he?” he asks, looking around.

You duck your head down where the tip of the kid’s green ears are peeking out from under the blanket on your chest. “Here. He’s sleeping. Probably the warmest out of us all.”

He nods, coming closer to you as he sets down the toolbox he’d been using to fix whatever he could out in the blizzard. His beskar is covered in a light dusting of snow, some of it caked to the clothes underneath. You giggle, unsure what else to do in this predicament you’ve found yourself in. 

“What?” he asks in reply to your tinny laughter, looking back at you.

You shake your head, your hair you’d let down today fluttering about your shoulders. At least it’s keeping your ears warm. “The snow. It’s all over you.”

Mando looks down at himself in reaction to that, using his gloved hands to beat some of it off to fall to the ground. You laugh softly a touch more before letting it die down, resting your head back against the wall and letting your eyes slip shut. Within moments, your upper body starts shaking from the chill with nothing to distract you anymore.

“Are you cold?” you hear off to your side, the modulated voice sounding breathless. 

You shrug as best you can. “The kid is warm, that’s what matters.”

His boots beat against the ground of the ship, you can hear and feel them, but don’t realize it’s because he’s coming more upon you until suddenly you feel something draping across your shivering shoulders, covering your neck and closing over your arms. Your eyes pop open in time to see Mando turning around to walk to the opposite wall—without his cape.

You want to gape, want to cry, but hold it in. The gesture he just granted you feels too big for the space you’re currently in. 

“Won’t you be cold?” you ask, voice suddenly hoarse. “Without your—cape?”

His gait freezes at the question, body turning slowly to glance back at you. The impenetrable steel of his helmet mocks you, yet again. “What did you call it?” he asks, tone slow.

The blood beating red into your cheeks is shameful at best. But you secretly thank the warmth it brings you, teeth biting the inside of your mouth. “S-Sorry—a cape? Is that not what it’s called?”

There’s a pause of silence, nothing but the kid’s breathing and the howling wind outside being heard, before Mando releases a sound into his modulator. If you aren’t mistaken, it sounded like a snort. A harsh chuckle. Your shoulders tense. He might have just _laughed_ at you.

“I call it a cloak,” Mando replies.

You feel as if you’re the color of the sunsets on Tatooine. The humiliation burns through you. “Oh.”

“I’ll be fine,” he tells you, moving on from the awkward interaction about his _cloak_. “As long as you and the kid are warm, I’ll be fine.”

You ignore the thrum of feeling that sentence brings you, instead scrunching your brows as you glance over his armor. You wonder if the beskar holds in his body heat with how heavy it is, all thick and large. And the clothes underneath help, but how many layers could he possibly be wearing under there? Then you wonder—does he wear socks? Undergarments? 

You shove yourself out of that line of thinking, your tongue feeling thick in your mouth. “Are you sure? Mando, I can—”

“Leave it. Get some sleep.”

You snap your mouth closed, understanding the shrug-off. He settles on a wall not too far away, maybe about ten feet, crossing his arms over his chest and tipping his head back. You wonder for not the first time how uncomfortable it is to sleep with that helmet on. Sounds constricting. 

“Stop thinking,” he laments out loud. Your eyes widen. “Sleep.”

You shift under the cloak, not wanting to admit just how much more warmth it’s bringing you. The kid on your chest digs in deeper, his little nose pressing into the inside of your arm. Before you close your eyes you glance Mando’s way one last time, wanting to show gratitude for what feels like the hundredth time. 

“Thank you,” you murmur. 

Nothing yet.

-

Getting the ship to fly was a struggle, but Mando somehow managed. You had assisted, in your own special way, having to sit on his shoulders at one point so you could be boosted up to a panel on the ceiling. After he had dropped you back to the ground he didn’t look at you for a bit and you wonder just how heavy you actually are.

He found the closest spaceport once off the snow-blanketed planet, somehow getting you there using hyperspace. It was bumpy and awful but at least you made it to Mos Eisley in one piece.

As Mando is talking to the repairman about getting things fixed up, you let the kid wander around with you trailing behind, seeing what weird stuff he’ll manage to find today. He pinpoints on a large tank full of what looks like half-frog, half-fish creatures swimming around in violet-colored water, stopping at the glass to glance at the little green bean every once in a while. The cooing sound he’s making means he’s hungry.

“Oh no, you don’t,” you tell him, bending down to pick him up. “You and I both know you can’t eat something we don’t recognize. I’m not cleaning up your puke again.”

He babbles something angrily and you ignore it, instead fishing a packet of dried fruit from the bag on your back.

After the kid has munched down some things Mando has found you again, stopping at your side in the middle of the calming marketplace, as the day is near a close. His shoulders are tense. “Repairs are gonna take longer than expected,” he tells you, one hand on the blaster at his hip. “Won’t be finished ‘til tomorrow morning.”

You raise your brows. “So we’re staying the night?”

“It would appear.”

A slow breath releases from your mouth as you glance at the kid, his clawed hand wrapping around one of your fingers. “Hey, at least we’ll sleep on a real bed for the first time in weeks, eh?” 

Mando doesn’t answer and just starts walking again, so you jog to keep up. Some people spare the two of you glances as you walk, his beskar armor glinting under the setting double suns. It’s a testament that you can relate to their fear and intimidation of this man yet realize how far away it seems. Although he still scares the shit out of you and challenges you to be less—just _less_ , you’ve managed to create a companionable atmosphere with him. It comforts you to know the sense of dread you first felt in an encounter with him is all but abolished. 

The Spaceport Hotel looks wonderful enough as you walk inside. It’s obvious the Gran at the front isn’t eager to help Mando as he bounds to the desk, but you follow behind him so he can take the lead. 

“We need to stay overnight while a ship is repaired,” he says in the Gran’s native tongue. “Rooms available?”

“We do have one!” the female Gran proclaims. “With a lovely view of the Spaceport as ships fly in and out—”

“Another one?”

The firmness of Mando’s voice through the modulator locks up your spine. You know there’s multiple reasons why he would be against sharing a room with you—privacy, to name just one. And yet, his interruption stings the inside of your mouth.

“As a hotel that only has forty rooms available, we don’t have much to offer—”

“That should be fine,” you cut in, stepping forward. Mando abruptly looks down at you, his fingers on his blaster tightening. “How much?”

“Fifteen credits!”

You fork it over as Mando twitches beside you, clearly unsettled. A key is passed off that you grab, turning to the lead the way down the corridor toward the rooms. The silence is thick and you can taste it, but you don’t feel the need to explain yourself. You’ll make this work—you’ll figure something out so someone doesn’t have to sleep on the streets tonight.

The room is modest but perfect, the bed large and heavenly looking. You can’t wait to seep into it and sleep the best you have in so long. 

You ignore the presence of Mando for a moment as you head to the chair in the corner of the room, thinking this will make a fine-enough spot for the kid for the night. Out of your pack you take out one of the smaller blankets you have, bunching it into a little nest and setting him in it. He stays put, just staring at you with wide eyes. 

Mando says your name, so soft and low through the modulator that you almost feel like you hallucinated it. Once again, you bulldoze over him. “I’m gonna use the refresher,” you announce. 

While cleaning yourself, you take a second to get your bearings. You’re stuck in a room for the night with a man who won’t show you his face—that’s fine. You’ve been around him for hours on end without this being an issue. Maybe if he uses the refresher you can fall asleep while he’s in there, negating the problem of having to avoid seeing him. Right?

Returning into the room, your hair wet and wound high on your head and dressed in looser clothing to relax in, you find Mando sitting on the edge of the bed. A pang runs through you seeing he’s removed his utility belt and ammunition, blaster and jetpack on the floor beside the chair where the kid is already dozing. That’s a good sign. He’s also already taken the liberty of shuddering the drapes on the window, so no one can see in. 

“Do you, uh, do you need to—” you ask, gesturing to the refresher. 

He nods shortly, looking stoic and unsure. You breathe. You wonder if conversation with him is always going to be difficult. “I won’t look,” you finally let out, feeling breathless. “I promise. We can—we can figure something out.”

“It’s fine,” he grits out, the modulator buzzing. “I just—”

The kid coos and you use that as an excuse to exit the conversation for now, feeling jittery. Mando gets to his feet and goes into the refresher. As water pounds to the ground, you can also hear metal clanking once he begins to remove his beskar. Your heart is in your throat. 

You calm the kid down by giving him a piece of dried meat from the bag, letting him chew on it as he yawns sleepily. 

Mando is in there for a long time, the water a soothing background noise as you organize your belongings. You wonder when it was the last time he was somewhere like this, not on the ship and holed up running. Hopefully he’s taking advantage of a good-working refresher, rubbing off the dirt and grime you’re sure he constantly has on him under all those layers. Maker, you bet he’s just _dirty_ —

The water turning off halts your train of thought and you dart to the bed, shaky wondering why your brain took that route. You force your knees together as you sit facing the wall, back to the refresher door. You want him to know you’re serious, that you aren’t gonna look and will do what you can. The thought of him without a lick of clothing on is surging your stomach forward, heat trailing you. 

Maker, get a _grip_.

It feels like cycles later that the refresher door opens and you hear Mando walking out into the room. You make it a point to keep your back to him, what sounds like an exhale leaving him meeting your ears. You listen as he sets his beskar down, the sound echoing around the room. The kid isn’t making noises so you wonder if he’s dozed back to sleep.

It’s when there’s silence that your nerves heighten and you want to swallow your tongue. “I won’t—”

“I can keep my helmet on,” he’s saying next, the familiar buzzing voice filling the air around you. “I’ve slept in it before.”

You snort, not meaning to. “I know you have, but—” The pulse at your neck feels sluggish as you try to wrap your head around how you can pull this off. “I want you to sleep, too. You can’t tell me you get a good night’s rest in that.”

Pause. “You’d be surprised.”

“Mando—”

“It’s fine—”

“You could blindfold me.”

As soon as the words leave your mouth, you feel like you should regret them. To be fair, you don’t. But they feel different, feel sharp along your teeth. Your breath is gone as the suggestion sinks into the bed between you and him. 

The silence this time is lingering, like torn up pieces of paper swirling in the air as wind moves through them. Your fingers shake from where they’re gripping your own knees. You wish more than ever you could see his reaction right now.

“What?” he finally asks, voice through the modulator sounding like a growl.

You swallow. “You could—you could blindfold me. That way you can take off your helmet, your gloves, anything. I won’t be able to see and we won’t have to worry about it.”

His throat clears. “Okay.”

Tension relieves through your shoulders and down your arms. “Okay—”

Next thing you hear is tearing of fabric, loud and ripping. You startle a little, eyes going wide. “Mando, don’t ruin—”

“It’s fine. I have more than just one,” he off-handedly replies. You wonder if it was from his shirt, picturing the sight of him easily tearing off a long strip from it. Your thighs clench and you have to scold yourself right after. 

You feel the bed beneath you dip as he gets onto it, the weight coming closer to you. Your mouth is dry again. Heat reaches your back as you feel him behind you, his presence like a scorching furnace. You can smell _clean_ on him, wondering if he’s indulging himself by wearing a soft shirt of some kind, letting loose and relaxing—

Fabric touches your eyes so they flutter shut, pants wanting to spill past your lips as he brings it around to the back of your head, making sure it’s somewhat tight and starting to tie it off. You can’t feel the skin of his fingers as they touch your hair, but it’s still _touch_ nonetheless. 

Once he’s done, you feel him back off a bit. You’re not sure what to do, feel out of place all of a sudden, but then his hands are on your shoulders. Thrill pulses through you as he eases you back on the bed, letting you adjust against the pillows before his touch abandons you once more.

He’s still on the bed but you hear as stuff hits the floor, soft and weighty. You assume it’s his gloves or maybe his tunic—the idea of a topless Mando next to you is exhilarating, but you of course can only imagine. A part of you resents suggesting the blindfold but another part of you is aching.

Then, the undeniable sound of metal being set down on a surface reaches you, and you know he’s removed his helmet. Your whole body tenses.

Once you know he’s settled on the bed, both of you on your backs near each other, do you dare say something again. “Comfortable?” you ask, fingers fluttering to do something. 

“Yes.”

And _Maker_ , his voice. Still dark and still firm, but different. More human. More—is there even a word for it? Full? You can feel the tone and bass of it all the way down to your toes as they curl against the sheets. You wonder if hearing a Mandalorian’s real voice is somewhere in the Creed but don’t dare ask. This moment feels too fragile already.

“Are you?” he then questions. In the darkness you wonder if he’s turned to look at you or if he’s still staring at the ceiling, like you imagine you are.

You nod against the pillow under your head. 

As seconds pass by, you can still feel his gaze on the side of your face. You’re not sure why, maybe you’re just paranoid and wires are coming loose in your mind, but it’s the heat, the way the silence feels intended. You want to say something, anything, but aren’t sure what would make the most sense. The kid is snoring now, in the corner, and you ache to know what Mando is thinking about.

“Mando?” you ask, voice tentative.

“Yes?”

“Are you looking at me?”

His throat clears for another time tonight. “Yes. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

Just to do something you decide to move, carefully turning on your side since you’re still unsure of your surroundings. You realize too late that you’ve decided to turn onto the side facing Mando, unintentionally, and you blush. You can’t very well turn again to the opposite side, it would seem pointed, so you live with your decision. The silence is deafening.

Suddenly, there’s touch at your chest and you jump. Another touch finds the curve of your waist, settling you. “Sorry,” he says, the feel of him on you too much at once. You want to scramble off the bed, feeling overwhelmed. “I was looking at the necklace.”

Oh. The one from Canto Bight. “What about it?” you reply, gentle for whatever reason. You feel like with the proximity you want to stay quiet, keep it here and treasure it.

His hand moves off your waist, but the one at your chest remains. You feel his fingers grab hold of the folded metal pendant, brushing your skin ever so lightly. Tingles erupt there. “Why did you want it?” he questions then.

You’re still wrapping your head around so much—the bed, his voice, his touch—but you breathe and tamper it down. You can process it all later. “It’s from Jakku for sure,” you tell him, feeling his exhale tickle the hairs around your face. Your heart jumps. “My parents are from there.”

“It’s beautiful,” he says.

(You just about die again.)

“Yeah,” you reply dumbly. 

It drops back against you, feeling cold on your skin. The ghost of his hand is still on your waist, teasing you now that you know what it felt like. You wonder if you can look him in the face ever again after tonight.

“Thank you,” he’s suddenly blurting, sounding warm and genuine.

In the darkness from your chosen-blindness, you feel like you could stumble. “For what?” you ask.

“For—for doing this,” he sputters, sounding rough. “For giving me a night without the helmet. It, uh, it speaks worlds into existence.”

“Every face should be uncovered sometimes, at least for themselves,” you remark, unsure if that even made sense. Judging by his thick silence, you can’t tell if he’s grateful or pondering on your ridiculous statement. Either way, you feel his fingers touch the edge of the blindfold, following the line of it. Your lips part.

“Regardless,” he murmurs, hand dropping after leaving a trail of fire in his wake around your covered eyes, “thank you.”

And then he rests, completely at peace and himself. 

The blindfold comes off in the morning, after he watches you with a heavy gaze while returning into his armor. He saved his helmet for last.

-

Kijimi City, according to Mando, isn’t a place to be trifled with. You wonder if that means you’re gonna have to camp out on the ship again, watching over the small little booger you’ve come to adore more than life, while your steel-enforced boss goes out to find the quarry for the evening.

You bet your credits on it in your brain and, lo and behold: you win.

He’s been gone for a little over half a day when you start to realize how cold you are. Again. It’s not the same bone-biting frost like on that snow-ridden planet, but it’s like a chill that has settled over your skin like a dust. Giving you goose-droid pimples. The kid has had the good fortune of being bundled in a blanket all day, lucky him, so he hasn’t shown signs of a similar shiver.

You decide to let loose one of the small jumping toys you had purchased for the kid back at the Colossus marketplace while attempting to find something else to get warm. 

You weren’t keen on the idea of just wrapping yourself in a blanket, you didn’t feel cold enough for _that_ , just something to at least wear while playing with the kid so you weren’t having to rub your arms every ten seconds. The thin white sleeveless jumper you’ve been sporting for the past couple days is obviously not enough to get that job done.

As the kid runs off toward the ladder that leads to the cockpit, squealing and jumping after his newfound game, you head to your bag that always stashes your extra clothing. You need to wash stuff soon too, you realize, since you forgot to find a proper washing station while in Mos Eisley a couple weeks back.

Inside your pack, under some bags of dried food and gauze, you see a swaddle of black fabric, curled in a ball and what appeared to be hastily tossed in here. You scrunch your brows, not immediately recognizing it, and pull it out. After smoothing it to full length, your forehead unwrinkles and your lips part instinctually, realizing what this is.

It’s one of Mando’s black tunics. Torn along the bottom.

The one he used to blindfold you in the hotel.

Heat smacks your straight in the face, twinging along the route of your body and burying between your legs. Maker, you have a problem.

You must have grabbed it in your hurry to pack everything up, Mando already being out the door at the time to start heading back to check on the Razor Crest. You don’t consciously recall stuffing it with your own belongings but, then again, making sure a baby gets from point A to point B tends to take up your mind more than anything else. 

As you’re remembering the events you notice your thumb has been rubbing along the fabric of it. It’s _thick_. Stitched together tightly, woven with the intention to conceal. You simultaneously believe how warm it would be while remembering how he had torn it with just his hands. 

Maker, _stop_.

Well, it’s not like you’re snooping or stealing. He all but said out loud that he probably won’t use this again, said _I have more than just one_. Why would he be pressed about you using it to not feel the chill in the air anymore?

Before you’ve decided if you’ve actually _decided_ , you’re tugging the tunic on anyway. It fits you a bit big, hangs down to the middle of your thighs and hides half your hands. None of that matters though as it immediately eliminates the rush of cold still hugging your skin. 

You hum happily as the kid runs back behind you, laughing and chasing his toy.

A few hours later it’s officially nightfall, a dark blue hue outside when you go into the cockpit to check your surroundings. The sprawling gray-toned city isn’t one that looks entirely pleasant and you wonder what kind of people live here. Then again, you wonder about most places. Leaving the ship more would be nice.

It’s as you're bouncing the kid around on your hip in the cockpit, hoping to wear him out with dancing so he’ll just _sleep_ , that you hear the unmistakable exhaust-release of the large hatch opening. Ah, he’s back. 

He’s just finished cementing his latest quarry in carbonite when your feet hit the ground from the ladder, cold wind still gusting in from outside. It hits you square in the front, momentarily taking your breath away and blowing back the kid’s ears a bit until Mando clicks something on his wrist and the ramp starts shutting. You calm the temporary chattering of your teeth as you step toward him.

“Everything go okay?” you ask, running an eye down his form to check for any bloody patches or scuff marks. Looks all clear.

“Fine,” he replies, head turning to you. “How’s the—”

His sentence cuts off and you watch as his helmet moves down the smallest bit, taking in your form. You’re two seconds too late in catching up, remembering what it is you’re wearing. The large tear along the bottom makes it oh-so obvious and you’re suddenly caught between wanting to disintegrate into the floor and scrambling back up the ladder.

“Mand—”

“Is that mine?”

You feel frozen. In a different way. “Yes. I-I was cold, and—”

At that announcement, his gaze zeroes in on your chest before slowly, achingly, moving back up to your face. His posture remains straight and tall, towering over you even though there’s still about six feet between you both.

“Clearly,” he replies, voice dark through the modulator.

Your breath leaves you again. Without understanding why, you drop your head down to where he had just been looking. Heat blooms across your face. 

Your nipples are hard, poking through the coarse material of the shirt. Painfully so. And he _pointed them out_. 

(If you could drop yourself into the Sarlacc pit right now, you absolutely would.)

You’re not sure what to say, all words and concepts of language leaving you. You can’t even cover yourself, still holding the kid on your hip, one of his clawed hands curling around your finger as he attempts to shove it in his mouth. How you are able to humiliate yourself so consistently in front of this beskar-clad man, you have no idea. Fate really loves messing with you.

Something is in the air. You can taste it. It’s potent, hot and warm on your tongue. The buzzing of the hull around you is the only thing you can hear, coupled with the messy tempo of your pulse.

“Did it help?”

Your head has been spinning with your own embarrassment that the question surprises you. “Wh-what?”

“Did it help?” he asks more slowly, helmeted gaze still fixated on you while he’s unmoving, stock-still.

Oh. The shirt. Right. “Yes,” you answer, wishing you could will your body to react in a different way. You’re all sorts of wound up: tight in your abdomen, tight in your chest, _tight in between your thighs_. The relief you’re desperate for feels too far off on a horizon. “Th-thank you. I’ll give it back.”

He makes, yet again, another noise you wish you could decode. Low and rough, coming through the vocoder like a rainstorm. Then—“Keep it.”

You have to tamper down the soft sound that tries to crawl out the back of your throat. He moves, boots thumping past you to get to the ladder up to the cockpit. His cloak brushes your side, hitting one of the ears of the kid. The green monster garbles something in response.

Once again, for the record, you do.

-

When Mando said you were going to visit “a friend” you weren’t sure what to expect.

In your two months working with him you didn’t think he had friends. Sure there’s Cara Dune, your trusty Marshal who led you down this road. Plus he’s associates with Greef Karga, a man you’ve encountered only a couple times and don’t plan on intentionally running into again. Other than that, there’s no one you could recall him discussing that would warrant a whole _visit_.

So you’re even more surprised upon returning to Tatooine, since your last stop here didn’t involve any familiar faces.

Your little group touches down in front of what looks to be a shop of some kind, a couple of droids hanging about. As you exit the ship behind Mando, the kid tucked into your side in his usual spot, a woman in a mechanic’s jumpsuit hops down from on top of some kind of transport vehicle, removing her welding helmet as she does. She has curly hair all around her kind, wrinkled face.

“Mando! What the hell do you think you’re doing here?” she calls as she comes upon you, hands finding her hips.

“Peli,” he remarks, “I have a favor to ask.”

“Always the favors with you!” she _tsks_ , head shaking as she beats her weathered hands together. “When was the last time you did a favor for me?”

From behind, you can see him raise his hand to his blaster. Even when around friendly, teasing folk he always has his shackles up. “Next time you want me to play bus for someone, make sure they don’t speak Frog,” he tells her, a note of reminding in his voice. 

Recognition blossoms on the woman’s face. “Oh! That! Well, you got her to her husband in one piece didn’t you? I knew it would work out.”

He huffs, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Ah!” Peli then exclaims, peering her head around the block of beskar Mando creates, looking at you expectantly. “And who’s this? Carrying such precious cargo? Give him here!”

You hesitate, unsure, but Mando looks back at you and gives one nod of his head. You step forward and hold out the kid, his hands already trying to grab eagerly for this woman you’d never even heard of. Guess it’s true what they say: you learn something new about your mysterious, low-spoken employer every cycle.

“Hello, baby!” Peli grins, squeezing the little wad of green into her chest. “We’ve missed him around here. Could use someone to clean up the floor-frogs I have infesting my hangar.”

“Good,” Mando comments. “I ask that you watch over him for the next day. You’ll be compensated.”

You feel just as shocked as Peli, confused by this new development. You’re dropping off the kid with some stranger? Who even is she? On top of that, why? Were you staying too? Or were you going elsewhere with Mando? Questions circle your brain like water down the refresher drain, unsure what to do with your hands all of a sudden. You settle for stuffing them deep in your cargo pockets, curling your nails into your palms. 

“300 credits,” she immediately bargains, one eyebrow high.

“Done.”

Your jaw drops minimally, wanting to argue at the high price, but Mando is already handing off a stack of currency. He hasn’t looked at you since confirming you could hand over the kid to Peli, just kept his back to your front while you hover behind him, uncertain. 

“I’m trusting you’ll see to his safety,” Mando says. Not a question, a command.

Peli scoffs. “He’ll be fine. His biggest danger under my care is one of the cleaning units mistaking him for garbage. Wouldn’t be the first time!”

“Good,” he remarks. “Can I borrow one of your speeders?”

“You’re lucky I already gave such a high price or I’d request another 100 cred,” she snides, turning to walk toward a bunch of scraps of metal off to the side. You and Mando follow, the ground beneath you feeling uneven.

He doesn’t reply to this one, and your group comes upon a long metal speeder bike. You’d only seen one of these once before, back on Nevarro, and had always wondered what it’d be like to helm one. Guess today is your lucky day. You run a hand over the length of one of the handles, excitement bubbling in your stomach.

Before you’ve realized Mando and Peli are no longer talking over the logistics of when you’ll both return, you feel a grip find your waist. Air rushes out of you as he squeezes, tugging up. A small yelp leaves you as he easily helps your figure onto the seat of the speeder, your thighs hugging each side of the peeling leather bench once you settle. Once his hands leave your middle, sliding away with his heat, your heart is in your throat. _Maker_.

“Safe travels,” Peli is saying, using one of the kid’s hands to wave goodbye as Mando swings himself onto the bit of seat behind you, his entire body lining up with yours. _Uh oh_. “See you soon!”

You haven’t yet processed the turn of events from the past few minutes when he starts up the speeder and the two of you zoom forward, into the desert.

On the ride to who-knows-where, you feel yourself coiling up more and more. His arms around you to reach the steering, his large legs bracketing yours, the way you’re just pressed into his chest a certain way—you’re eyesight is blurring. It’s like that night in the hotel room. It’s all at once so overwhelming, such a stark difference to everything before this point. You either get so much or so little, no in between. His warm presence alighting the nerve endings of your back, your body feeling so small compared to his. You want to ask what’s going on but the speeder causes wind to whip by too fast, too loud so he wouldn’t hear you anyway.

You’re not sure how long you race over the expanse of orange sand, the suns getting lower and lower in the sky as you go. You’re also not sure how far you’ve travelled. You’ve never looked at the maps on this area of Tatooine, certain there was nothing even over here. 

Soon you see a small town in the distance, buildings dotting the line of the horizon. You clench up in anticipation.

As you slow, Mando turning the speeder to stop behind a wall, you wonder if you should ask. You’ve stayed completely silent since leaving the ship, unsure if questioning his apparent plan for the evening would be insulting. 

“What’s this place?” you ask quietly as he maneuvers himself off the speeder, his feet finding the sandy ground. 

“Mos Pelgo,” he tells you. He holds out his hand silently afterward, fingers up. You look at it, blanking, before he just reaches forward and grabs one of your own where it’s resting on your leg. He tugs and you all at once understand, letting him assist you in stumbling off the bike.

“What’s Mos Pelgo?” you ask once you’re righted. “You’ve never mentioned it before.”

He turns, helmet glinting under the dimming sky. “I’m sure I have.”

You have to jog a moment to keep up with him as he goes to round the wall, walking into the actual expanse of the very, _very_ tiny town. “I would’ve remembered,” you shoot back. “I definitely would’ve remembered you talking about some town I’ve never heard of.”

The conversation ends as you hear someone shout. “Hey! Mando!”

Both of you look to your left where coming out of an open, arching doorway, is a blonde-silver haired man, wearing a brown leather jacket and sporting a blaster on his hip. He smiles wide, and you notice how tall and lanky he is. The form-fitting black pants don’t help and you officially decide this man is quite handsome. In a jovial, friendly male way.

“Marshal,” Mando replies, walking forward to meet this other man as he comes down the front of the steps leading to the building he’s exiting. “How’s the town holding up?”

The _Marshal_ smiles even wider, clasping hands with Mando once close enough. You raise your brows, becoming more and more steadily impressed. At the start of this day, your metal-made boss was nothing more than a lone wolf out in space. And now you’ve met _two_ people he clearly has friendly relationships with. On the same _planet_.

“Beautiful,” the Marshal informs him. “Smooth sailing ever since you helped us out kindly.” You immediately want to hear this story. “And who’s this you have with you?”

The tall, silver man looks at you past Mando, lips still pulled up into that charming grin of his, teeth white. You feel like a droid in the headlights—should you introduce yourself? You were never even introduced to Peli, so do you say something now? Oh, of course you should, you’re a person, it’s not like Mando is intending to keep you hidden away, just for himself—

“She helps with negotiating,” Mando is saying, along with your name. “Also takes care of the kid when I can’t.”

You put on a polite face, putting out your hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“The feeling is mutual,” the Marshal replies, doing a swipe down your figure. Although a move or look like that can put a negative chill down your spine, this one just makes you blush slightly, unsure why this man you’ve just met is already being so brazen. “I’m Cobb. Cobb Vanth.” His hand slides into yours to give one strong shake, before he turns your grip and bends down, brushing his lips across the back of your hand. Your cheeks go pink. “If I’d had known Mando was hiding someone like yourself on the ship I would have insisted on seeing it.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Such pretty words for a Sheriff.”

“Ah,” he continues, returning to his full height. “Marshal, although I’m not hastening to correct. Sheriff is a title I’d gladly bolster.”

A chuckle passes your lips before you release his hand, letting it fall to your side. You feel the need to glance at Mando and find him staring right at you, helmet angled your way. Your eyes go wide and you suddenly feel like you did something wrong. As you flit your gaze to the ground, biting your lip, you notice Mando’s fist curled tight into a ball next to his blaster. 

“Shall we?” Vanth is saying then, extending his arms up toward the building he was in. 

“Lead the way,” Mando replies. You notice his voice sounds tight, gritty through the modulator. 

For the next hour or so you’re given a grand tour of Mos Pelgo, from the watering hole to the merchant shop, until you’ve rounded back to the bar Cobb Vanth seems to enjoy being at the most. It’s got a similar layout to that of the Mos Eisley cantina, with just a touch more open light and space. The town itself is so small, but the atmosphere surrounding it is cozy, homey. A place built for an easy life. You idly wonder what it would’ve been like to grow up here instead. 

Once it’s officially gone dark, the suns completely below the horizon and stars twinkling close up and far away, do you find out why Mando brought the two of you here.

There’s a celebration of some sort.

“Six months ago today, you helped us defeat the krayt dragon,” Vanth is saying, one hand on a hip while the other is extended out toward the fire, drink in hand. “An act we will forever be in your debt for. Our town can’t show enough gratitude for all that you’ve done.” You glance at Mando to your right, the stony air he’s giving off nothing new. He’s never enjoyed compliments. “Thank you, Mando. We drink for you tonight.”

You feel shock at finding out that not only are you here for a _party_ , but one in honor of _him_. You thought the surprises were done coming your way and yet he continues to prove you wrong.

There’s a smattering of claps from the rest of the townsfolk gathered around the fire, all holding drinks or plates of food. Someone had put together a feast, full of juicy fruits and Terrine, some kind of dish derivative of here. All you cared about was how _delicious_ it was as you ate it. Also the Jawa beer wasn’t half bad, just a bit muskier than you like your alcohol to be. You decided to sip instead of gulp.

“A krayt dragon?” you ask aloud after the toast has ended, hoping one of the men on either side of you would shine some light. “Just how big are we talking?”

Vanth, on your left, laughs heartily. “Gigantic. Humongous. I’m surprised our half-made plan worked.”

“The improvisation at the end could’ve used some fine tuning,” Mando, on your right, chimes in. The fire in the center of the throng of people is reflecting off his beskar, painting him yellow and orange. You’re slightly mesmerized by it. “It went down easy.”

“This one, always putting himself in danger,” Vanth sighs after taking a long chug of Jawa beer. “How do you put up with it?”

You peer at Mando before meeting the Marshal’s gaze. “I don’t. He knows how I feel about reckless decision making.”

Vantha raises one silver brow. “Is that so?”

Mando hums, the sound of it through the vocoder seeping into your tunic. A shiver races down your spine, making you visibly shake a bit. “She’s vocal,” your boss answers. 

“She appears to be cold as well,” Vanth announces, brows moving the opposite direction to dip low over his eyes. He must have noticed the little quake your shoulders just gave. The goose-droid bumps on the back of your neck don’t help your case. “Here.”

Before you’re able to protest, the Marshal is sliding off his brown leather jacket and getting to his feet. You feel mute, Basic language completely escaping you, as he is suddenly at your back and depositing his jacket around your frame. It settles on your shoulders, hugging your sides and brushing your thighs from where you’re perched on the makeshift bench. A blush finds its way onto your cheeks. You’re unsure what to do. “Th-thank you,” you finally manage out, nodding your head once. 

Vanth plops back in his seat at your side, now in just a dark red tunic, giving that wide smile of his. “Of course. Can’t have you freezing to death in my town, now can I?”

A heavy weight descends on you, and it’s not from the jacket. As if by instinct, a magnet drawing you toward him, you turn your head to look at Mando. 

Although his face is always concealed (the _one_ part of a person’s body that gives everything away) the way he holds his body speaks volumes. You’ve deciphered when he’s frustrated, tired, or annoyed. Usually any mood that tells you to steer clear, let him stew in his own emotions before attempting conversation. 

You have to admit you’ve never witnessed him _angry_.

Something about the way he’s sitting next to you, shoulders stiff, hand propped on his thigh gripping hard, helmet cocked your direction as he _stares_ : it’s like you can feel _something_ coming off him in waves. Your tongue darts out to lick over your lips, nerves stinging the edges of your fingertips. A sharp inhale echoes out of his modulator.

“Mando,” Vanth is saying, interrupting the heated eye contact. “How long were you planning on staying?”

After giving you a heady, dark once-over, his legs shifting wider apart on his seat, does he look away from you, back at the Marshal. “Just tonight,” he answers. The tone is rough, running low against the ground of the modulator. “We have somewhere to be tomorrow with the kid.”

You subtly squeeze your thighs together as best you can without drawing attention to yourself, finding yourself staring at the fire. The idea of looking at either of the men right now isn’t appealing. 

“Good,” Vanth says, sounding satisfied. “I have a room ready for you above the bar. A spare one that we give to travellers who need it.”

“Thank you,” you relay on instinct. “We appreciate the gesture.”

“It’s the least we can do. Don’t hesitate to let us know if there’s anything else you two will need,” Vanth replies, genuine sincerity in his voice. His smile is contagious and you can feel the corners of your own lips tugging upward.

As the night wears on, Mando remains solid and silent on your right, only offering conversation when directly asked. At one point, when a small breeze had brushed over your group, you huddled the jacket a touch closer around you and you _swear_ he reacted. Something unmistakably like a _growl_ pinched through his vocoder, practically knocking you out of your seat. Confusion thrums through you as more and more townsfolk drift off for the evening, returning home, and you’re getting antsy. The air feels off.

“Sorry,” you pipe up when there’s only about six or seven people left around the fire, Vanth still being one of them. “Is there a refresher in the bar? Duty calls.”

The Marshal chuckles. “Understandable. Go ahead and go on upstairs, you’ll find your room for the night on the left. There’s a place to relieve yourself there.”

You nod and scramble to your feet, feeling thick in your body and a little woozy from Mando’s presence beside you the latter half of the night. You hurry away from the group and toward the bar that’s lit, beckoning you inside so you can clear your head. The staircase is easy to discover leading up to the second story, where you also manage to find the guest quarter’s no problem. It’s a large circular room with two beds, which surprises you, the theme of it dark and inviting. You head into the refresher, closing and locking the door behind you to lean up against it. 

Maker, _relax_. 

You wish the ability to decode Mando more thoroughly was in your realm of talents but, alas, he still eludes you. What is going on with him? The distance, the clear indignation laced in his posture, the pointed silence. Is he mad at you? Does he not like how Vanth is treating you? Wh—

It’s when you’re done peeing and are washing your hands, looking in the mirror above the faucet, that you notice you’re still wearing the Marshal’s rough-worn, leather jacket. Oh. Oops.

Outside the refresher, back in the guest quarters, you hear a door open and shut. 

You scrunch your brows and dry your hands, opening your own door and returning into the main room. Mando is standing just inside, cloak brushing the wood of the doorframe, his hands once again curled into fists at his side. He’s looking straight at you, tall and imposing, but most importantly: quiet. 

A gulp slithers down your throat. “Hey, I was gonna head back—”

“No.”

The one word coming out of the helmet is firm, coated in gravel. All of it combined sends a ricochet down the center of your body and you’re ashamed to say you feel it in between your shaking thighs.

Seconds late, your eyes widen a tad, taken aback, before they narrow. Who’s he to tell you what to do? “Uh, excuse me, but—”

“Take it off.”

The command blows you back a step, your feet stumbling toward the wall. Something like butterflies flit through your stomach, breath leaving you. He takes one step forward, gaze under that damn helmet completely fixated on you. Black sand is in your mouth again. 

“What?” you manage out, small and breathy.

“Take it off,” he repeats, moving forward another step. Your chest is moving up and down rapidly now, like you’re panting. “Or I will.”

Take what off? In your sudden daze brought on by the new electricity charging through the air, you glance down at your frame. The sight of Cobb Vanth’s bulky jacket covering you, dwarfing you, finally clicks everything into place. A slight thrill makes another beeline toward your aching middle. Mando is _jealous_. He’s _vindictive_ at seeing you in Vanth’s jacket. _That’s_ why—

Your name being snapped through his modulator brings your attention back to him, your head shooting up. He’s closer now, maybe by a few steps, but still feet away. “Now,” he admonishes once more, and this time you’re _sure_ what you heard was a _growl_.

You feel like you should argue, can sense your shackles raising at his audacity to push you around, but the next step he takes toward you stops you in those tracks. Within seconds you’re sliding the jacket off your arms and onto the ground, letting it _thump_ below. You’re left in just your tan, short-sleeved tunic and cargo pants. 

A long exhale pulses out of his helmet. For the first time since being under his employment you admit to yourself how affected you are by this man. This beskar-clad, concealed, secretive, intimidating _Mandalorian_. If the slick gathering in your underwear is anything to go by. 

“And the rest of it.”

 _That_ forces you to reer back into the wall fully, the flat of it meeting your back.

_Huh?_

“What?” you echo your bewildered thoughts.

Suddenly, the last step he takes puts him in your space. He’s all at once above you, metal and terrifying, swarming your vision and imposing. You then notice that his blaster is off his hip, along with his ammunition belt. Your brows lower.

One gloved hand reaches out, fingering the edge of the shirt hanging out of the waistband of your pants. “Off,” he says, lower, softer. Still firm. 

“What makes you think I’m just going to undress—”

He grabs the shirt he’s touching more tightly, yanking you closer to him. The top of your head swipes across the bottom edge of his mask, cold and chilling. Feeling the beskar on your body sets a trail of fire toward down below. Your pussy is _throbbing_.

“Don’t make me ask again,” he tells you. “Strip.”

Instead of releasing you to let you lean back against the wall again, he tugs you forward and around him, pushing the space between your shoulder blades. It assists your staggering toward one of the beds, his presence just behind you making your nipples tighten under your shirt. Memories of you clad in a different tunic, darker and thicker, swirl up your mind, and the way he had looked at you then coupled with how he’s treating you now has everything liquifying. You whine.

Once closer to the end of the bed you stop and turn to him, breathing heavy. You start with kicking off your boots, pushing them with your foot under the mattress and out of the way. He doesn’t say anything, just stands there, levelling a look at you to make sure you do as he ordered properly.

You want to say something, anything. “Mando—”

Apparently, you’re taking too long.

Next thing you know, he’s flipped you around and is shoving you down by your shoulder, head-first toward the mattress. A garbled, broken moan is forced out of your lungs, your hips pushing backwards of their own accord from where they are jutted out behind you. His other hand that hadn’t manhandled you so spectacularly has taken hold of one hand, fitting it against the small of your back and gripping. You breathe into the soft sheets pressed to your cheek, whiplash daring to settle in. 

“ _Mando_ —” you start again, but don’t get very far.

“Seeing you in—” he cuts himself off with another sharp breath through his modulator. “—in his jacket, I—” The hand on your shoulder moves down, swiping over the expanse of your arching figure, finding solace at your hip where he curls his fingers against the bone. “—can’t believe you _wore_ his—”

“It wasn’t anything—I promise—”

The grip around your wrist squeezes, your bones grinding together. You yelp. “It was _something_ ,” he continues, gritty and dark. “How he spoke to you, _touched_ you—”

“Mando, I only ever—”

“—when I saw you in my gloves, my shirt, I thought—but, then you wore his—” Mando _snarls_. Literally _snarls_. Breath is escaping you, yet again, and your heartbeat is pounding in your ears. “I should’ve yanked it off of you the moment he tried it—”

Then, without preface, Mando sneaks a hold onto the waistband of your pants and tears them down, bunching them at your knees. A gasp startles out of you. “Mando, wait, _please_ , I’m—” Desperation curls at your insides but you’re hesitant, feeling strung out from his anger and recklessness.

One gloved hand smooths up your bare thigh, coming to a stop at the edge of your underwear. Dark gray, covering, modest. But by the way your Mandalorian groans, you may as well have been wearing nothing. “I need to—I need to touch you, can I—?” he traces a line around the hem of your panties. 

Heat trails down you. He’s asking for permission? When, up until this point he’s—

You moan, understanding he’s still here with you. Your body starts shaking as you begin to realize he’s showing you who he is, under the mask, without taking it off. “Yes, please, Mando, _touch me_ —”

No further invitation is needed as he’s yanking the last barrier down, baring your wet flesh to the room. Heat swarms your face as you realize the picture you must make, half-naked and bent over the bed, an armored walking weapon behind you. You feel absolutely defiled in the best way.

“Pretty girl,” he groans, one gloved hand coming to rest on the swell of your ass. “Look at you—all for me—”

You grunt, hips tilting back in place of a verbal response. 

A gloved finger moves down your skin, tracing over the shape of your outer lips. A mewl presses past your mouth. He doesn’t apply any extra pressure, doesn’t shift to touch anywhere else. Just touches the outline of you, breathing heavy through his helmet, memorizing the curve of what he’s been desperate for since Vanth had the audacity to sling his jacket over your shoulders. Well, if the Mandolorian is being honest with himself, he’s been desperate for it since way before that.

Suddenly you’re hearing metal clank to the ground and your heart ricochets into a messy beat, wondering if he’s begun taking off armor. When you rear your head to the side as much as you can from your position, your equal parts disappointed and intrigued to find he’s just dropped to his knees in front of your exposed, parted legs. The hand not currently giving feather-light touches to your pussy begins pushing your pants and underwear completely off, pulling them off your feet and tossing them off to the side. It then finds its place on your skin again, gliding up the expanse of one leg to meet its companion at the notch in the middle. You breathe shakily.

Because, although you can’t see it, you know Mando is openly staring at your pussy. Watching as you clench on nothing, slick gathering the more he keeps you open and on display for him. You shift on your ankles, eager for more.

“Keep still,” he grunts, squeezing at the round flesh of your ass under his palms. “I want to look at you, sweet girl.”

_Pretty girl_

_Sweet girl_

You’re going to physically combust if he calls you one more precious nickname.

Air hits you as his hands lift for a second, before they come back within a matter of seconds. However, you startle feeling his flesh on yours. Bare hands, warm skin, calloused fingers— _he took off his gloves_.

You whine, pussy clamping down on nothing again as you feel untethered heat rocket through you. The reaction causes Mando to make another unfiltered noise through his modulator, thumbs of both hands finding your lips and spreading them open obscenely for his benefit.

Your jaw drops. 

“Maker, I want to taste you,” he’s suddenly saying, voice tight and pitched low. “Would you like that, pretty girl? To come on my tongue?”

Anticipation is choking you, but you nod with a gasp. “Yes, Mando, _please_ —”

A sharp knock at the door snaps you both out of the swirling moment.

Neither of you move, both frozen where you are. Immediately you become aware of your position, nerves stinging the edges of the intimate, excited atmosphere that was previously circling you and your Mandolorian. He squeezes his hold on you once, ushering you to not move as you both wait, wondering if the person who knocked will hear the silence and move on.

When nothing comes again, he lets out a strong exhale and strokes a thumb through the wetness gathered at your opening. Another gasp is shoved out of you just as _another_ knock falls heavily on the door.

Mando growls and gets to his feet, touch abandoning you. You move to follow as well, idly searching for your clothes, when his hand reaches out and finds your chin, wrenching your eyes to his. The feel of his bare hand on your face has your naked thighs jerking together. 

“Take off your shirt,” he commands, thumb moving under the pout of your bottom lip. You notice it’s slightly damp and your face flushes bright red, realizing it’s from where he had just been touching you in between your legs. _Oh Maker_. “Then cover up with this.” Next thing you know he’s releasing the cloak from around his shoulders and throwing it next to you on the mattress. His hand leaves your face and you instantly throw your shirt off your torso, becoming all at once completely naked.

He hums down at your form before turning around, heading to the door where whoever is waiting has knocked a _third time_. You have just enough time to scramble and get his cloak covering you as a makeshift blanket before—

“Marshal,” Mando’s voice sounds extremely unsurprised at who your visitor is. “What can I do for you?” His beskar-clad body blocks your view of your unannounced guest, but you can see the silver hair peeking over the top of Mando’s glinting helmet in the open doorway.

“Mando,” Vanth replies, his own tone sounding a tad bit shocked. “Sorry, I stopped by to grab my jacket—”

“Let me get it for you,” Mando finishes for him. 

Before you have a chance to maybe roll off the bed and out of sight to make this any less _humiliating_ , your Mandolorian steps away from the doorway, putting you directly in the line of sight of Cobb Vanth. His eyes make contact with your splayed body on the round mattress: one elbow holding you up while your other hand huddles Mando’s cloak to your chest, effectively hiding the sight of your clearly naked body. Goose-droid bumps pebble along your bare shoulders as you see his throat bob with a swallow. Dread pierces low in your tummy.

There’s a thick silence as Mando crosses the room to pick up Vanth’s discarded leather jacket off the floor from where you removed it earlier. The Marshal has moved his eyes off of you as Mando comes back to him at the door, holding out the bastard piece of clothing that brought all this on in the first place.

“You two have a good night,” Vanth says as he takes the jacket in his grip. “Y’all should stay for breakfast before you head out in the morning.”

Embarrassment floods you at the idea. Before you can get a word in, Mando nods, still appearing cool and collected. “Thank you, Marshal. See you then.”

As soon as the door clicks shut you fall back on your shoulders on the bed, glaring up at the ceiling. A strange surge of confidence overcomes you. “You knew it was him, didn’t you? Is that why you asked me to take off my shirt before answering? You wanted me _naked_ when—”

Words die on the tip of your tongue as the cloak is yanked off of you, exposing your body to the room yet again. You yelp as a hand curls around your ankle and tugs, pulling you to the very edge of the bed. 

“I wanted you _naked_ ,” he grunts back, using your same emphasis, “to show him you’re not _his_ for the taking—” He cuts himself off with a hiss as he sinks two fingers into your warmth, overwhelming you with the hot stretch. Your back arches as you instinctually attempt to pull away from the intrusion, but a large hand on your hip stops any movement.

“Oh, _fuck_ , sweet girl,” he moans at the feeling of you clutching down around his fingers. He slowly, achingly pulls them out, your eyes fluttering with them. “You feel so good.”

You circle your hips as he pushes them back in. “Mando—”

“So wet and ready for someone who was arguing about being naked for our friend,” he interrupts, bearing down over you so your vision is clouded with hulking shoulders and shiny beskar. You gulp. “You like being shown who you belong to?”

The edges of your sight go cloudy at the presumptuous question. Your instinct is to bite back, claim your independence, but the headiness you feel at the statement and your placement, all you can do is moan and nod. “Ever since I wore that blindfold for you, I’ve been—”

The jerking twist of his fingers inside you yanks the words from your mouth, and he lets out his own groan. “Can’t say stuff like that, sweet girl,” he admonishes. He sounds breathless behind his modulator as he continues scraping his fingers along a particularly blissful spot inside you. Your back bows again. “Seeing you blindfolded for me—I wanted to take your mouth right then and—”

“ _Maker_ ,” you cry as you’re all at once shoved to the edge. “Mando, _please_ fuck me, please, just—”

He huffs, tearing his fingers from your pussy at your plea. “Of—of course, pretty girl, I got you, I—”

You hear fabric rustling as he works to free himself from his pants, all but pushing his pants under his armor down an inch. At the sight of his cock, hard and long, you can’t help the whimper pulsing out of your mouth. He fists it, stroking up then down once, putting on practically a little show for you as you eagerly take it in. He lets out another searing sound as you swipe your tongue along your bottom lip. “I _will_ claim your mouth next time, sweet girl—”

He’s grabbing your ankles again, you know it, but you feel passive to it as his words hit you square in the chest. _Next time_.

A gasp pushes out of you as he tugs you forward again, this time to bring your legs up and straight, tossing your ankles on top of one shoulder. One hand comes down to your stomach to brace you down, keeping you on the bed, while his other goes back to his cock, the sight of it hidden by the newly made barrier of your legs. The position confuses you, unsure why he wants to fuck you like _this_ —

As he enters you, stretching you back to the pressure you felt when he had two fingers in you but _more_ , your eyes roll back and you understand now. Everything is so tight, hot—you can feel how snug and searing you are around him as he works himself further into you.

“Oh, Maker, Mando—” you garble out nonsense as the thicker part of his dick breaches you, opening you up that much more. He groans into his modulator, the sound like crunching gravel. “It’s so good, you’re so—”

He dips down, hips tilting forward as he does and then he’s completely seated inside you. You clench on instinct and he curses low, following it up with your name, dark in his mouth. Everything tumbles inside of you.

As he begins his pace in and out, snapping against your ass, his hand on your stomach trails down to your mound. His other hand goes up to wrap around your ankles at his shoulder, keeping you exactly how he wants you as he fucks. You feel like the air is stolen from you as he takes what he wants, thumb gliding through your folds to your clit, head of his dick brushing the top of your channel with each thrust in. It’s all _so much_ , that overwhelming feeling from the hotel in Mos Eisley beats down on you again. You either get everything or nothing, it’s hard to swallow it down. 

He bears down on your clit, bringing you back to reality, and a moan is forced from your throat. “Yeah, sweet girl?” he pants behind his helmet. With how constricting this position is, tightening you for him, he manages to fuck into you with such precision, your walls grasp for him each time he moves in and out. Like your pussy can’t wait to take him back in with each return. “Let’s get you there, yeah? Want you to come—”

You nod, head rearing back as heat coils at the base of your spine. His thumb on your clit starts circling meanly, sparks shooting to the tips of your fingers. You scramble for purchase at the sheets underneath you, wanting to do something with your hands but unable to.

“Come on, beautiful,” he’s murmuring as he steers you closer. His voice is wrecked, rough through the vocoder. “I want to see you fall apart for me, _because of_ me—” It shouldn’t surprise you that he runs his mouth in bed, that he doesn’t _shut up_ since in every other aspect of his life he’s quiet, calculating. Here, he can be as messy and loud as he wants. “Back home I’ll fuck you in my shirt, have you bouncing on top of me—”

His perverse description of you riding him doesn’t send you to the stars and back, it’s him describing his dirty ship as _home_. Home with _you_. Light bursts in your chest as you’re tipped over the edge, the orgasm suddenly exploding at the edge of your womb, hurtling through your core and to the tips of your toes. You cry out, a shortened scream as he shoves into you, letting you clamp down on him like a vice as you ride out the galactic wave overtaking you. 

Once you’re winding down, breaths heaving through you, Mando rips himself out of you, legs suddenly falling under you. You yelp as he grabs one shoulder, pushing down until you understand and fall to your knees in front of him. 

His other hand is on his cock, jerking rough and loose, heavy breathing piercing through the helmet. “Open—open your mouth,” he chokes out, hand still on your shoulder squeezing with a death grip. A sharp pang hits your pussy. You oblige, lips parting wide as you look up at him, looming over you big and metal. 

“F-fuck,” he groans, hand swiping over the head of his dick right in front of your face. You whine lowly, wanting to sneak a taste but you patiently wait, ready for him to finish wherever he needs. Once again, you picture how the two of you must look and it’s too much to think about.

“Gonna—gonna come on your pretty face, sweet girl,” he gasps out, grip getting more and more erratic on his cock. He’s close, you can tell. The hand on your shoulder suddenly shifts, curling around the back of your neck and snagging some tendrils of hair with it. “Gonna—oh _Maker_ —”

Hot spurts hit your face and you sway forward to catch some in your mouth, your tongue out and willing. A bit hits your nose and your cheek, collecting on your skin as he moans above you, watching as he defiles your face. 

Once he’s done, stroking slowed down to a halt, hand on your neck squeezing hard, do you feel brave enough to close your mouth. You swallow all that was on your tongue, maintaining what you think is eye contact with him as you then lick over your lips. 

You’re welcomed with another sharp exhale from him. “Dirty girl.”

More confidence pools in your belly. You smile, wicked. “I thought I was sweet girl?”

“Sitting there with my spent on your face?” he shoots back, thumb pushing into your pulse point. “You’re filthy.”

For reasons unbeknownst to you, the words make you grin wider. And as much as him admiring the sight of you with cum all over you sounds wonderful, you clear your throat and head nod to your forgotten pants off to the side. “In the pockets of my cargo—”

“Got it,” he finishes for you, tucking his cock back into his own pants as he goes toward yours on the ground. Unbuttoning one of the many pockets he finds a square piece of black cloth. He pauses once it’s in his hand, recognizing it, before returning to in front of you. 

You expect him to hand it to you so you can wipe yourself off, but he surprises you for the hundredth time today by squatting to your height where you are on your knees. He cleans you up himself, methodically wiping over your cheeks and nose until all remnants of him are gone. 

Once he’s done he tucks it away in a pouch on his utility belt. You want to protest but are cut off as he grabs at your waist, hauling you back to your feet. You sway a bit but he helps steady you. “You trust me?” he asks, helmet tipped forward as he peers down at you. 

You nod without thought. “Of course.”

From another pouch at his side, he procures a different strip of fabric. This one _you_ recognize as the makeshift blindfold from back in the hotel of Mos Eisley. Your stomach clenches. 

“Will you—can I put this on you?”

You hesitate, not sure why, but finally nod a second time.

He remains at your front as he places it over your eyes, effectively blinding you. He roughly ties it at the back of your head before finding your shoulders and pressing, helping you sit back down at the edge of the bed. You gulp, uncertain, but stay rock still as you feel his presence move away from you.

There’s sound—curtains being closed ( _Maker_ were they open this whole time?), the snuffing of light, a door closing—and then there’s _more_ sound. Piercing, deafening. 

The sound of him removing his armor.

A new kind of anticipation sweeps over you. You continue to eagerly listen as the sound of metal finishes and it’s just rustling, like fabric brushing together. And then, finally, silence.

It’s when the mattress behind you dips that you start, jumping a bit, before hands find the curve of your waist. You ease, his calloused fingers grazing up your rib cage. “Come here,” he’s murmuring and your heart soars hearing the lack of a modulator covering his voice. You let him guide you back toward the head of the bed, hands on you the whole time. It’s here, now, in this intimate bubble that you feel nervous. As if him fucking you is easier to deal with then the quiet, the vulnerability. Your mouth feels dry. 

A hum greets the space behind your ear as he tucks you into his body, your back fitting against his chest. Tingles burst over random points on your body.

You’re _cuddling_ with your Mandolorian. You’ve basically soared to a different planet, that’s how high you feel right now.

One strong arm fits around your torso, successfully banding you into him. The other finds solace on one of your thighs, easily trailing his fingers up and down the skin there. You shiver. You feel his face graze your shoulder, the skin rough from stubble. He’s just as naked as you, pressing up to every part of your body, showing you he’s here. He’s every bit _here_.

“Mando,” you break the easy quiet.

His lips shift against your skin. You huff at the feeling. “Yes?”

You’re unsure why you spoke, not actually needing to say anything. It just felt so quiet, so tense. You clear your throat. “Are you sure you were correct in calling me vocal when talking to the Marshal?”

His grip tightens on you at the mention of Vanth, but you just chuckle. “Because, _honestly_ , you seem like the vocal one out of the two of us,” you continue, lips tugging into a small smile. “You were talking quite a lot of dirty shit to me just a bit ago—”

He emits a low growl into your ear as he huddles you closer, and you huff out a laugh. “You’re insufferable,” he throws back. “Can’t even let me enjoy holding you.”

“Not without light teasing.”

He pinches the skin above your hip, jolting you farther back into him. He bites into your neck and you’re once again overwhelmed with the sensation. You wonder when it’ll hit you that you’re entirely with him, naked, bare, _open_ —having him in a way that no one else has. Feeling parts of him you’ve never felt before. His breath on your skin, his large thighs encompassing your frame, his hand curling over the shape of your breast. 

It’s so new and so hard to grasp.

You never want to go back to being without it.

“Are you satisfied now, my dirty girl?” he asks, licking at your earlobe. Maker, he won’t stop _touching_ you. 

You breathe, burrowing deeper into the bed and into him. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” he echoes, inhaling deep like he’s breathing in all of you. This warmth that’s settling over the two of you, sinking into the air—it’s indescribable. “Good.”

“Thank you,” you murmur into the darkness, unsure what you’re grateful for.

He doesn’t seem to care because he just nods, and you feel him shift against you. It feels right, like two bodies meant to collide. “You’re welcome.”

The next morning when you’re readying to leave, he keeps the blindfold on you until the last possible moment. He still hasn’t kissed you, still hasn’t awarded you that part of himself. But even as he puts his helmet back on and brings back your eyesight, letting you blink up at his towering beskar-clad form, you feel at ease knowing you got _something_. And anyway, you’ll get more. This seems like just the beginning of it all.

You’ve got time.

**Author's Note:**

> Handkerchief  
> Gloves  
> Cloak / Cape thing  
> Scrap of Fabric (as blindfold hehe)  
> Shirt / Tunic  
> *Cobb Vanth’s Jacket


End file.
